


That Wonderful Unknown

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Period-Typical Racism, Self Confidence Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 01:27:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2528945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, he whispers into their open-mouthed kiss that Porthos is beautiful – and Porthos laughs, but it is a different laugh from before, a cruel laugh as if waiting for the joke, for the teasing, for the dismissal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Wonderful Unknown

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt I got a while ago and it's taken me a bit to actually write it because I wanted to approach it with sensitivity and not make it heavy-handed. But the prompt was for Porthos with body image issues when he first meets Aramis, although I approached it less that he dislikes himself, but that he knows others dislike based on his race. But I also wanted to frame it from the perspective of portamis, and more specifically focus on the growing trust between the two of them rather than dive down deep into self-image and all that presents. I'm not entirely sure if I succeeded on not making it kind of saccharine, but oh well.

Porthos wears his uniform like armor, contained and upright. He’s buttoned up to his throat, hat slung low to cast shadows across his face – where he is soft. At the time, Aramis does not know this. Not at first, not the first time. 

The first time he is half-drunk on death and booze, and Porthos is drunk on his freedom, unshackled from his past for the first time in his life – and Aramis, Aramis is freedom incarnate. And despite – or perhaps because of – the fact that they are starting a tentative friendship, something both of them are still stepping into, Porthos with his guard up, Aramis with his heart already too open—

But because they are almost something like friends, Aramis finds Porthos at his door, at midnight, at something of a loss for his freedom, and uncertain where to start now that the world stretches out before him – now that he can be anyone or anything. Not that Aramis knows yet that this is what drags through Porthos’ mind – that endless question of _what now_. 

Aramis invites him inside, and he does not know if it’s because he’s that predictable or if Porthos has simply learned enough about him now to not be surprised when Aramis fists a hand in his collar. And Porthos lets loose a low, smooth promise of a laugh that makes Aramis’ mouth go dry and his feet nearly stumble as he pulls Porthos into the dark. Porthos’ uniform stays on, that night, along with his bandana, the gold glint of the brass in his ear – when Aramis goes to touch at his clothes, to peel them back, Porthos’ shoulders go irrefutably rigid, a spark of defiance curling tight into his eyes when he stares at Aramis. Aramis touches his hair and Porthos’ expression turns cloudy. He lets Aramis loosen the coat, lets the buttons fall open to expose a curving length of his throat, a vee of his neck where chest hair peeks out from the slump of his tunic – and that’s all. After that, Porthos pins his hands down. His belt is loosened and he drags himself against Aramis and Aramis forgets how to breathe, forgets how to stay steady beyond the steady press of his hands (always steady and gentle, a skill required for mending wounds) against Porthos’, aching to touch but obeying the silent command to only watch, to only feel. And next time—

Well. There will be a next time. Aramis is determined.

 

-

 

The next time is not long after that and the time after that even sooner. Porthos, for his bravado and his attempts at intimidation, is woefully inexperienced and yet takes Aramis’ teasing with as much grace as he can handle (for one breathless moment Aramis feared he would insult him, push him away too much with his laugh of delight). Porthos only looks flustered, actually blushes, and whispers that he’d both feared and hoped that Aramis wouldn’t care about such things – and Aramis doesn’t care at all if Porthos is experienced or inexperienced so long as he’s laughter in his throat, dark hair curling into his fingertips, weathered hands pressing to his stomach and chest, whispered words of what he has done in dark corners of a place he doesn’t dare detail out for Aramis’ ears. Aramis, for his part, merely laughs a breathless kind of plea, whispers back that it’s all the better to keep his dear Porthos from bad habits – and Porthos laughs, loud and hearty and going straight to Aramis’ heart, or cock, or both. 

Still, Aramis finds Porthos an eager pupil and a quick learner, his hands steadier by the day, his mouth surer and more deadly pressed against his earlobe, his neck, his stomach, his cock – and Aramis is nothing if not a willing teacher. And between the two of them, Porthos learns how to make Aramis gasp, and laugh, and clutch at his shoulders. He teaches Porthos a better way to use his tongue other than shouting, another purpose for his strong arms and hands other than fighting, another purpose for that strength beyond pain ( _unless both parties wish for it,_ he teases around Porthos’ smiling kiss). There are only little things to learn, only small truths and Aramis drops them into Porthos’ hands endlessly, careful, freely and without price – and Porthos moves closer to him each time, relaxes quicker, lets Aramis loosen the buttons of his uniform himself. 

Once, he whispers into their open-mouthed kiss that Porthos is beautiful – and Porthos laughs, but it is a different laugh from before, a cruel laugh as if waiting for the joke, for the teasing, for the dismissal. And no matter how Aramis tries to whisper it into the skin that Porthos exposes for him, Porthos merely shakes his head, curls his fingers tight in Aramis’ hair, and says that no one could ever be as beautiful as Aramis and isn’t that such a way for him to fish for compliments. 

It breaks Aramis’ heart even as it makes him irrefutably fall in love with this man – if only for the chance to outline, every single day, just how badly and how desperately he finds him beautiful. If only Porthos would listen. 

Sometimes Porthos stays and sometimes he does not. Aramis keeps other lovers and Porthos does not begrudge him that, as they are friends and brothers and Aramis likes to think that, together, Porthos finds little glimmers of peace. When asked if it bothered him, Porthos merely smiled, shook his head, touched Aramis’ hair and said, “Your heart’s too big to leave it to itself.” 

Which Aramis always found oddly poetic from his coarse friend – and yet Porthos is a mystery and a delight to unravel, for Porthos at once hates to be cherished and yet adores being needed. His hands glide over his and despite the room in his heart for many people, Aramis can quietly admit to himself that, on nights when it’s just the two of them, his body pressed to his, no sound between them save for the glide of skin on skin (what little skin that Porthos allows him to touch) and their soft breaths mingling as they moan out each other’s names, there’s something in his heart that stops its wounded beat and – he feels a peace he thought he was giving Porthos deep within himself instead. 

Sometimes he looks at Porthos in these moments and wonders if Porthos can read the heat in his eyes, if he can see the way Aramis looks at him – and Aramis looks at him in that darkness and feels that Porthos’ eyes burn a brighter brass than the loop of it in his ear. And he thinks, silently to himself, privately, that if there is such a thing that can be called a true love, then perhaps Porthos is that. All-encompassing, all-consuming, ever-giving without ever running dry. Infinite. Porthos. 

 

-

 

One morning, when he wakes to find Porthos still there, his face sleep-lax and lips parted slightly with his breath, Aramis indulges himself in thoughts of a forever, in thoughts of bright future and sunny smiles. And the sun is bright today, overwarm with the Paris summer, and as he stirs out of bed, Porthos turns and wakes, eyes flickering open. 

Aramis lounges on the bed and watches Porthos get dressed. It’s not until Porthos tugs up his trousers and secures his belt that Aramis fully realizes how much he cherishes the long bare muscles of his legs, the curve of his backside, the little peek of his lower back where the dimples of his back invite Aramis’ teeth and tongue. It’s not until Porthos passes a hand somewhat self-consciously through his hair before securing his bandana that Aramis realizes how infrequently he can go without touching it. It’s not until Porthos buttons himself up all over again that Aramis realizes just how rarely Porthos leaves himself exposed – just how perfect it is when Porthos is sprawled, open, panting below him or above him, where he can touch expanses of scarred skin and think that it’s perfection. 

He asks Porthos about it, voice sleepy and warm as he asks, “Why do you so rarely take the uniform off?” 

Porthos looks at him in the mirror, his eyes perfect and dark and his lips quirked into a small smile, at once gentle and pained, bruised from kissing, devastating in his beauty – and Aramis parrots that smile, warmed by how flustered Porthos would get if he were to call him beautiful, and heartbroken to know just why Porthos would dismiss it. 

Porthos doesn’t answer him – not with words, at least, but instead moves to his side and cups his face, tilting his chin up, kisses him deeply like he’s learning to breathe again, like he’s empty and trying to be made full again, and Aramis’ breath hitches as he responds in turn. He can barely breathe for the heavy weight of the air, thick with the summer heat, thick with how badly he wants to pull Porthos back down against him. 

He touches his face – a touch of neither lust nor mere friendship, and as Porthos stills to something a little more guarded, Aramis lets him drag the bandana down and away, slides his fingers into his hair and keeps him close, kissing him. He touches the scar over his eye and thinks it’s beautiful. Porthos does not flinch and instead presses closer – lets Aramis pull him closer. 

 

-

 

Aramis keeps that lesson for the next days, weeks, months – pulls Porthos too him and pulls his clothes off piece by piece, as far as Porthos will let him – whether by his own hands, by his teeth, by guiding Porthos’ own. He nibbles at the earring in Porthos’ ear, presses his lips to his temple and whispers his name, pulls out all the heady noises he makes just by the pull of his lips on his skin. Porthos pays back the favor as often as not, and Aramis knows that Porthos enjoys the sight of him shuddering underneath his mouth. 

Aramis runs his hands over him, touches at him, feels Porthos shiver at his touch, the way his hands shake a little as he braces them on Aramis’ skin in turn. Aramis smiles when he pulls back, and they both pretend they cannot feel the way Porthos’ heart thuds fast and hard in his throat. 

 

-

 

When Aramis pulls off the final piece of Porthos’ uniform, his armor, when Porthos is laid out naked before him, Aramis’ hands are as unsteady as they’ve been since the first time he ever held a gun and fired it. Porthos doesn’t say a word, turns a little, sighs, pushes a hand through his hair, and something twists up hot inside of Aramis, overflows from him like water, and he tangles himself up in Porthos, fumbling for fear of knowing where to start, wanting everything at once, wanting to convey everything at once. The sudden clumsiness of his hands, of his mouth as he tries to kiss Porthos merely makes Porthos laugh, soft and affectionate, sounding as nervous as if it is their first time, as if they have never seen something so small and delicate as their hearts in their hands. 

Aramis pulls back and Porthos stays still, turning with his back to Aramis so he can unknot the bandana for him, and lets Aramis drink him in. And Aramis’ hands shake when they trace down over his body, over every little bump of his back, touches at every scar, touches him merely for the sake of touching, drinks him in. He touches the smooth dark curving of skin so much firmer than his own, weathered and beaten but warm, perfect beneath his fingertips. He watches Porthos’ shoulders lift with his slow breath rather than tension, and Aramis whispers out his name as he presses his lips to the back of his neck, then the curve of his ear, then the slope of his jaw. 

It isn’t anywhere near the most heated kiss they’ve shared, nor the most passionate, but when Porthos turns his head and catches his mouth with his own, it is the most intimate. And Aramis slowly slides his fingers into his hair, holds him there and seems to curl over him, press into him, become part of him, until Porthos is caged in – and while he loves this man more than he can say, freedom and life condensed into one human soul, he knows that Porthos understands that not all possessions mean prisons – and Aramis becomes Porthos’. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers into the kiss and hears Porthos’ answering hum, neither a confirmation nor denial—

And that’s a start. 

Porthos lets Aramis kiss him, drink him in, touch over his skin, and then when he’s had enough, he pins Aramis down with one deft motion of his hand and does not release him until the next morning. And even then, he does not let go.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  **ETA:** This fic now has [fanart](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/101258955994/youre-beautiful-he-whispers-into-the-kiss-and), drawn by the wonderful JL! /chinhands


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